


in the liminal darkness

by 100demons



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 07:14:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2182734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100demons/pseuds/100demons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were only a few rules to being a doctor working for the yakuza. The most important one: <i>Ask no questions</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the liminal darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Torapadora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torapadora/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Just The Diffrent Side Of Pain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1968636) by [Torapadora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torapadora/pseuds/Torapadora). 



The call came at three in the morning, duty phone nearly vibrating its way off the nightstand. Takao caught it right before it fell over the edge and flicked it open with a practiced hand. It was from an unknown number, as always. 

“Takao Kazunari speaking.”

“I require your assistance,” came the stiff voice. 

Takao rubbed the grit from his eyes and swung his feet over the side of his bed, fumbling blindly for the light. “Midorima.” He switched the phone to his other hand as he turned the lamp on and pulled his slippers on. “Do I need to get the car out?”

“No,” Midorima said, sounding a little strained. “The clinic is fine. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

The line cut out.

Takao frowned down at the phone, wisps of fog still clinging stubbornly to the corners of his mind. Whatever it was, if he was well enough to give notice and make it to back to base, it probably wasn’t too serious of an injury. He rubbed the stubble on his cheeks and groaned deeply. Sitting around and speculating wasn’t going to help him if Midorima did end up bleeding out at his front door. 

He snapped the phone shut and stumbled to his feet, pulling on the first pair of scrubs he could see. The dregs of last morning’s coffee went into his mug and then into the microwave. Takao splashed his face with icy cold water while the coffee nuked, drying his face with a paper napkin that came with the takeout. 

By the time the coffee was done, he had about five minutes left to switch out his slippers for his beat up running shoes and hit the door, mug in hand. It was drizzling outside, warm wet droplets darkening the blue fabric of his scrubs. 

Takao liked to think he had the shortest commute in all of Tokyo-- just ten quick steps outside his basement flat (including the steps) and he arrived at work, a squat gray building across the street that looked like it wanted to be an actuarial firm’s office when it grew up. A cab sat waiting outside, plumes of exhaust ghosting around the curves of steel and glass. 

A window rolled down the driver’s side just as Takao made it to the sidewalk. 

“Oi, sensei.”

Takao looked down ruefully at his scrubs and then back at the cab driver, who took the chance to light up a cigarette, tucking it underneath his bushy mustache. 

“Are you looking for me?”

“Guy I drove here said that a doctor would be here right after I dropped him off,” the driver said, ash trailing from his mouth as he spoke. “Got a tab for 3800 yen that needs to be paid off.”

“3800?” Takao squawked. “Where the hell did you drive him from?”

“Train station,” the driver said, blowing out a cloud of smoke right into Takao’s face.

“That’s five blocks.”

“He bled all over my seats,” the driver said, unruffled. “It’s gonna take a helluva lot of bleach to get the stains out, sensei.”

Takao scowled and dug through his pocket for his wallet. How badly was he hurt to call a cab for a five block walk? Stubborn asshole, Takao could have just driven him to the clinic himself. He tried to summon up the anger as he fished through his depressingly thin wallet, but it just left a bad taste in the back of his mouth. 

“You take card?”

The driver gave him a look, puffing away judgmentally on his cigarette.

“Alright,” Takao groused, fishing out the bills and shoving them at the car window.

“Much obliged, sensei.” The money mysteriously vanished from his hand and the cabbie tipped the last dying embers of his cigarette at him before dropping it onto the ground. Faint wisps of smoke still rose up from the butt as the cab drove away into the darkness. 

Takao entered the building through a discreet alleyway entrance, feeling vaguely dirty and used. He paused a moment to wipe his wet shoes on the doormat, the cold gust of climate controlled air chilling him to the bone, then flicked on the lights with a swipe of his keycard. 

There were no written signs pointing towards the clinic doors, but Takao followed the trail of blood, dark as a ripe winter plum. He turned the corner and stopped suddenly, a razor sharp blade just a hair’s breadth from the skin of his throat. His coffee crashed spectacularly onto the ground, spilling all over his shoes. 

“Well,” Takao said. “Hello, Shin-chan.”

The edge fell away and Midorima leaned forward, one hand gripping the corner of the wall for support. “Takao-sensei.” Normally the title would sound like an insult; right now, Midorima just sounded tired, the dark green glass of his eyes clouded over and hazy. 

“Ah,” Takao said and swallowed his worry. “Why don’t we get you inside?” He kept a careful eye on the switchblade in hand and braced an arm around the taller man’s shoulders. 

Midorima was _heavy_ , bone and coiled muscle hidden under the sharp lines of a well-tailored suit. Something warm and sticky dripped unsteadily from a rent in the front of his suit jacket, wet fabric clinging unpleasantly to Takao’s skin. It took a bit of work to get the door open and haul Midorima inside, blood dripping down in warning, like sand flowing through an hourglass.

With a grunt he finally pushed the door open all the way and dragged Midorima through, settling him down onto the closest examination table. 

He was sticky all over and gross and sweating and Takao definitely regretted all those times he had skipped going to the gym in favor of watching the latest variety show. His scrubs were a mess, still damp from the rain and covered all over in blood and--

“What is this?” There were splotchy yellow-tinged stains all over his front, slick and shiny like grease.

“Gasoline,” Midorima muttered, arm braced against his side. “Doused me in it.”

“Son of a bitch.” Takao bit down hard on his bottom lip, chasing away all the feeling in it. The pain helped him focus. He was here to work, not think murderous thoughts about the dregs of Tokyo’s underworld. 

He plopped himself into a rolling chair and slid over to his drawers, pulling out a pair of shears, gauze, two liter bottles of saline, pressure bandages, several suture kits, and an emesis bin, laying it all down onto his rolling worktable. From a separate cabinet he pulled out an IV starter kit, saline bags and some lactated ringer’s solution.

Takao rolled it all over to the examination table, where Midorima was doing his very best looking like death warmed up in the microwave. 

“Time to lie down and think of God, country and Emperor, Shin-chan,” Takao said brightly, snapping on a pair of bright purple gloves. 

Midorima’s fringe of hair fell back as he looked up to glare daggers at Takao.

Takao smiled and pulled out his shears. 

Midorima sagged back onto the table, slowly and carefully pulling his long legs up onto the thick cushioned board. He didn’t ask for help and Takao didn’t offer, waiting until he had settled himself in properly. His feet dangled comically over the edge and Takao took the opportunity presented to shuck him of his socks and shoes.

“That’s Italian leather,” Midorima rasped, as Takao flung the footwear over his shoulder.

“Yes, I’m sure I’ve done more damage than bleeding all over it,” Takao said and cut away at Midorima’s clothes. He slid his shears up through the side of Midorima’s suit trouser, parting silk in one long slit and threw the trashed fabric away. Jacket and shirt went the same way, but Takao tactfully left Midorima’s boxers on. No obvious stains-- he would have to check later for potential injuries after he dealt with the big bleeders. 

The most obvious one was the big angry gash cutting through vertically down Midorima’s left side, starting at the edge of his ribs and trailing down to the jut of his hip bone, sticky with half congealed blood. The edges of his skin were tattered, like something with teeth had cut into him.

“What kind of knife was that?”

“Saw,” Midorima said tightly.

Takao frowned. “Still stand by your no painkillers rule?”

“Yes.” Midorima’s hand twitched around his blade, still in his grasp. “After I meet with Akashi-sama. Can’t cloud my thinking.” 

Takao hissed but said nothing, instead dousing the injury in saline and cleaning it thoroughly, sopping the whole mess up with gauze and throwing it into an emesis bin. Several other shallower cuts dotted his front that didn’t require stitches, ribs bruised black and blue all around them. He had precious little skin that was unmarked. Arms were blessedly just bruised and battered with some scattered abrasions. 

“Gonna have to get you x-rayed for breaks,” Takao muttered. “You hit in the head or black out?”

“Kicked.” There was a strained grunt as Takao washed everything thoroughly with saline. “Passed out on the train a little,” he said, lips pressed into a thin line. 

“CT scan for your head too, just in case, but it’s probably from blood loss.” Takao swiped a bottle of lidocaine from the stand and applied it around the jagged gash with a sterile swab. He tore open the suture kit and pulled out the nylon sutures, threading it through the needle with the forceps and holder. 

“This is gonna hurt,” he said absently.

“What else is new?” Midorima grunted. 

“On three, one, two--” Metal strained as Midorima’s clenched the edge of the table with his hand, knuckles whitening instantly. The blade in his hand gleamed wickedly, but otherwise stayed still in his grasp.

It was a lot harder to sew together the uneven flaps of skin than a clean blade cut, so Takao worked slowly, pausing every time Midorima’s breath became a little too ragged. Sixteen little stitches marched up Midorima’s side before the rent was completely closed up and by then, Midorima’s skin was bone white and sweaty. 

“That’s the big one,” Takao sighed, wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve. He gently taped a 5x9 surgical dressing over it and 4x4 gauze for all the other small cuts, smearing antibacterial cream over everything. 

“Gonna need you to sit up to check your back, Shin-chan.” 

Midorima’s eyelashes fluttered, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. 

“Shin-chan,” Takao said again, taking care to keep his voice even and strong. 

There wasn’t even a protest about his nickname. Midorima shifted up, agonizingly slowly, Takao’s hand steadying his shoulder. Sweat dripped off the end of his long nose by the time he was sitting up, dressings already stained red from fresh blood. 

Midorima’s heavily muscled back was a dark purpled bruised mess, red and inflamed and swollen all over. Takao skimmed careful hands down the notches of his vertebrae, feeling nothing out of place. No cuts or open bleeds, just a hell of a lot of contusions from a hell of a beating. Lung sounds sounded clear at all six points, so his ribs thankfully didn’t poke through his lungs.

“Christ.” Takao swallowed hard and looked away. “Alright, I’ve done as much as I can for now,” he said, rough. “I have to call in Kana-san for your scans and she’ll be by in within the hour so I can figure out whether you’ve got any internal damage that needs surgery, see how bad your ribs are fractured.” 

Takao stood up all the way from his hunched crouch over the examination table, kicking the rolling stool out of the way. Joints popped and crackled as he stretched and winced.

“Let me just get a gurney so we can wheel you into a holding room, get an IV line going--”

Midorima’s arm shot out and grabbed the hem of the Takao’s shirt.

Takao froze.

“Kazunari,” Midorima said huskily and his arm fell away. Takao could only stare blankly at the hard curve of his back, the thin blade of his nose in profile, fringed by dark hair and cracked glasses. Slowly, Midorima turned his head, dark eyes meeting Takao’s. Normally, they were brilliant green, hard and cold as cut glass.

Tonight, they were uncertain.

Takao licked his dry, cracked lips. “What is it?”

Silence stretched taut in the deep emptiness between them, in this quiet moment of eternity. 

“Hn,” Midorima turned away, hair falling over his eyes. “Alert Akashi-sama for me, if you would.”

Takao unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth and coughed. “Uh, yeah, of course. I have to anyway, it’s protocol.”

Midorima said nothing, instead folding his knife away. He held the handle loosely in his fingertips, polished mahogany gleaming under the fluorescent light.

There were only a few rules to being a doctor working for the yakuza. The most important one: _Ask no questions_.

Takao liked living a little dangerously. “What happened tonight?”

The knife in hand twitched. Midorima didn’t look up, instead bracing an arm around his ribs. “Are you sure you want to know, _sensei_?”

“You look like crap, you’ve been doused in gasoline so clearly someone wants to set you on fire, and you came from somewhere far enough that you had to take a train and a cab into Tokyo. My question is, why bother coming here? This looks serious enough that you could have ended up using the services of a satellite base.”

The knife dropped onto the table with a hard thunk. Takao flinched at the noise but stood his ground. 

“I needed someone I could trust.” 

“Oh.” Takao’s finger twined around a stray thread poking through the stitching of his scrubs. 

“It was very close tonight,” Midorima said, quiet. “Better to die in Tokyo than in some abandoned shipping container in Chiba.” 

“You’re not dying,” Takao said sharply, crossing his arms tight over his chest. “Not if I can help it.” 

“I know.” Midorima gave him a faint smile, deep lines of pain etched around his mouth. 

Takao was the one to look away this time, staring blindly at the linoleum floor. The ruins of Midorima’s suit lay scattered at his feet, pink puddles seeping out from underneath. It held no answers, only painful questions of a night that Takao could only wonder about.

“I’m gonna go get the thing now and call the boss,” he said, forcing the words out of his mouth awkwardly. “Um, don’t go anywhere.”

Midorima didn’t laugh at the joke.

He fled from the room, rubber soles squeaking against the floor. Takao had just made it past the doorway when Midorima’s low voice hooked into his skin and reeled him back.

“Takao?”

He turned his head, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes. “Yeah?”

Against Midorima's winter pale skin, his green eyes blazed like twin fires, aglow with an emotion Takao couldn’t quite read. 

“Thank you.”

Takao grinned at him. “For what?”

Midorima was silent, but his eyes darkened underneath cracked glass.

Takao’s grin softened into something tender and quiet. “It’s alright,” he said, and echoed Midorima’s earlier words. “I know.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [attempts at a liminal darkness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2392355) by [100demons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/100demons/pseuds/100demons)




End file.
